


If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

by vorkosigan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternative First Meeting, Anxiety, Canon Divergence - Avengers (2012), Christmas Eve, Christmas fic, Diners, Especially Tony, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hitchhiking, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Sharing Clothes, Snow, Sort Of, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve gets defrosted early, They Just Broke Up, Tony Stark Needs Sleep, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony is not with Pepper, Warning: making fun of Christmas sweaters, Winter, bad childhood memories, everyone has a crush on steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-25 11:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17120636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorkosigan/pseuds/vorkosigan
Summary: "Hold that thought," Tony said into his phone. "I apparently just got hit by a hitchhiker.""You hit a hitchhiker?"Happy sounded horrified."What? Am I talking to a wall? Igot hitby a hitchhiker."Having just broken up with Pepper, Tony is driving to California on Christmas Eve. When he picks up a hitchhiker, he hardly expects him to be the former Captain America, defrosted and on the run from SHIELD.





	If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> Okay, this is the prompt: When SHIELD defrosted Steve they were unable to catch him. Steve ran and ran... until Tony Stark accidentally hit him with his car. Tony is shocked to find out just who he hit. 
> 
> I modified it a bit, obviously. Thank you, anon prompt-maker.

"Hold that thought," Tony said into his phone, as something slammed – quite soundly – into the side of his car, parked by the roadside. "I apparently just got hit by a hitchhiker."

 

" _You hit a hitchhiker?_ " Happy sounded horrified, but Happy had sounded horrified for the whole duration of the phone call.

 

"What? Am I talking to a wall? I _got_ _hit_ by a hitchhiker." Tony paused, peering through the car window into the pitch black darkness off the side of the country road. "Unless it's an axe murderer. This _does_ seem like an axe murderer country." He was aiming for funny, but it mostly just came out as snippy. And it wasn't fair to Happy, just like it hadn't been fair to Happy for Tony to take off like that, on his own, without a word. But Tony's head hurt like eleven circles of Hades and he had a mother and a father of all hangovers. He wasn't in the mood for talking, he really wasn't, much less for feeling guilty. Actually, one of the reasons he'd decided to use the back roads was a vague hope there would be no signal and he'd be off the grid (and off the hook) for just a little while. But that was a no go. His tech was simply too good, unfortunately.

 

" _Tony!_ " Happy wailed, reproachful and just a little amused. _He couldn't help it_ , Tony thought, and _I still got it_ , he thought, just like he did whenever he successfully joked his way out of something. Well, this wasn't that, not exactly, but by the time Tony got to California, Happy will have forgiven him, surely. He'd fly in from NYC and wait for Tony in LA, probably tapping his foot all the while. "Please be serious for just one se..." Happy went on, then aborted that line of though, aware it was completely void. "Tony, where _are_ you right now? What just _happened_? You need to give me coordinates..."

 

Coordinates? Oh yes, Happy would actually try and follow him over here – which was his job and all, given, but Tony wasn't a teenager trying to sneak away from his bodyguard. He was a grown ass adult, who responsibly, after a lot of thought, decided to sneak away from his bodyguard.

 

Tony just... couldn't do this. Couldn't talk, couldn't feel bad. He couldn't... anything. The breakup with Pepper was still fresh and a little raw. The relationship had felt short, like a blink of an eye. It ended before they had much of a chance to share anything for real. After he got pitifully drunk and subsequently pitifully sober, he realized he was mostly grieving the fact he wasn't really grieving, or he was grieving far less than he thought he would be. He realized he felt sort of liberated, and then he felt so guilty about that he had to get drunk again.

 

This was the day after, colored by headache and nausea and his mouth tasting like cardboard and ash and shit.

 

"Tony? Coordinates!" Happy wasn't giving up. "Who is it there with you, did you actually pick up a hitchhiker? Please take care that..."

 

Tony cut him off. "No reason to be alarmed, it's just a guy – looks more like a mountain, though, to tell you the truth. We're alone on an abandoned stretch of road at night. It's fine." Then, as Happy took an audible breath, Tony went on in a more conciliatory tone: "Hap, it's _fine_. You know I can take care of myself. I got to check if the guy's all right, though, he might've gotten hurt. Other than that, it's all peachy. Gotta go. Toodles."

 

With a rueful twist to his mouth, he ended the call and tossed the phone onto the back seat, to ring on accusingly.

 

He leaned over the passenger seat to open the window. And he wasn't crazy either. He was in the middle of nowhere, alone, at night. He had one hand on the suitcase that could easily turn into his Mark V suit. He was prepared, even though the said hand was a bit quivery with exhaustion.

 

As he rolled the window down, icy air hit his face like a hammer. It had started snowing earlier, but in the warmth of his car Tony hadn't been aware the temperature had dropped this low. No, really, what's the lumberjack-type doing outside in this weather? Well, lumberjacking, probably, but still.

 

"Hey, Bigfoot," Tony said, "you okay out there?"

 

At the very same moment, the looming man bent down and the outline of his head appeared, framed by the car window. Tony couldn't see the face in the dark, though, just a shaggy head of hair and a beard. "Sir, are you all right?" the head said, way more polite than Tony and in a distinctly Newyorky accent.

 

"Never better, thanks for asking," Tony said, shivering, his head pounding worse than ever. Wasn't cold air supposed to make hangovers better? By freezing your whole face off, he suspected. "What are you doing out there?" In this weather, he didn't add. _This_ weather, a weather no one should be outside in, let alone out _here_. Yeah, well then, he'll have to give him a lift, won't he, he thought resignedly. 

 

The guy had slammed into his car so hard he'd almost moved the car. Either that, or it was Tony's hangover acting up. It did tend to make everything louder and significantly less bearable.

 

"There was a branch," the guy said. "From a tree?" he added as if it needed further explanation. "It was about to crash down on your car."

 

"So you decided to move the car out of the way?" Tony said dryly, because everything was weird, and this was his way of dealing with weird. A thank you might have been nicer, he knew. "You're a, what, a park ranger or something? Striding around the woodlands at night, protecting hobbits, freezing to death?"

 

For the umpteenth time since the conversation started, Tony wished he could see the guy's face. Parking by the roadside and turning the lights off in order to make a phone call might not have been his brightest idea. The lights did make his headache worse, though.

 

"I batted the branch aside," the man said brightly. Was that a hint of a shiver in his voice? Okay, everything else aside, the cold was getting severe and Tony needed to get him into the car and to move on. "But I, uh, skidded on the ice and collided with the car. Yeah. Well. Hey, I do know about the hobbits, though, I've read that book," the guy added.

 

Combined with his semi-cheerful voice, this somehow made the guy feel real and a little vulnerable. Maybe he was very young? He sounded young. Damn Tony's protective impulses. He did have a soft spot for idiots with no instincts for self-preservation.

 

"Why aren't you in the car already? Get in the car," Tony semi-snapped. You'll freeze to death, he didn't say, you'll freeze to death and it will be my fault. Asshole.

 

"Oh." The man sounded pleasantly surprised. "Oh, all right, then, I could use a lift. Thank you"

 

Tony unlocked the door.

 

"Can I put this in the trunk?" the guy asked, raising his backpack with one hand.

 

"Oh, just toss it in the back seat," Tony said, shivering, and the guy seemed to get the clue. He folded himself into the car somehow. For a moment Tony was afraid he wouldn't be able to fit in. That winter jacket was making him look like a bear, but the height wasn't due to the clothing, obviously.

 

"Thank you very much," the guy said again, and he sounded so nice and polite that, by Murphy's law, he surely _had_ to be an axe murderer. Although he probably wouldn't need an axe, either. "Are you going somewhere in the neighborhood? Not many cars out here on Christmas Eve. By the way, I'm Steve."

 

***

 

Ever since he woke up in the SHIELD headquarters and zipped out as if the furies were after him, Steve's life had felt surreal. He'd been on the run since. Without any money and papers it had been a whole load of fun. No, not _papers_ , he corrected himself, no one called them papers anymore. But that was one of the things that took him aback at first. It was next to impossible to be anonymous today. For Steve, this was wild and incomprehensible – why would people trade their privacy for convenience? He loved how useful the new technology could be, though.

 

In any case, it took him a while to get out of the urban areas with no money for transport and no ID. He did it mostly on foot in the end, because hitchhiking left a trail of witnesses behind. That was several months ago.

 

In the country, everything was easier. The pace of life was more what he was used to. It was possible to, say, trade a day of helping around the yard for a sloppy dye job in someone's sister's tiny hair salon. That way you could turn your hair and beard a more forgettable brown. In the country, it was also easier to do odd jobs here and there, in different villages, different farmsteads, and no one really asked for IDs or bank account numbers, especially – he figured – if you were tall and wholesome-looking (as he'd been told) and very, very polite. In the country, people would tell you to go help widow Kelley around the farm because she could be persuaded to give away some of the winter clothes left behind after the death of Old Red Kelley ten years ago; he'd been your size exactly, it's uncanny, ask anyone. In the country, there was peace, and you could feel useful while you struggled to find it.

 

In the country, also, it was so easy to get lost. And Steve was a natural. He was a city boy. To him, all trees and hedges and fields looked exactly alike, and one wrong turn lead inevitably to another; every stream was, well, _a stream_ , with no way to tell them apart. Fresh air stifled him. Hilly horizon made him claustrophobic. He'd left his soul somewhere among the Art Deco skyscrapers and that was that. In the country, Steve felt like an alien, but there wasn't a place Steve _didn't_ feel like an alien nowadays. At least he was a free alien, here. At least he wasn't an experiment, again, and no one was using him.

 

It was all surreal, since he woke up, but perhaps most surreal of all was running into Howard's son in a car by the roadside on Christmas Eve. Steve was trudging back home after _finally_ finding his way through the damned forest when he spotted a car parked by the roadside. For miles around there was nothing but trees, the car lights were turned off, and it was freezing outside – so cold that he had to struggle to keep panic at bay, despite the serum and the very warm winter jacket of Old Red Kelley. He just wanted to be home, in his room, huddled under a couple of dusty blankets, with the space heater turned up as high as it would go. But something could be wrong with the car, there might be someone in need of help in there, and he couldn't just walk by. He was still Steve Rogers, even though he was done using that name for good. It wasn't even a question.

 

This was when he spotted a branch, heavy with snow, about to fall on the parked car. Damn nature, it was always doing things like that. He let his reflexes take over and moved like a lightning. Footing on the ice was treacherous, true, but at least he managed to bat the branch aside in time. Surely the car owner wouldn't mind the tiny indentation Steve left in the shell of the back door when he skidded and slammed into it. Better than the hostile tree smashing the roof in. Right?

 

Steve peered inside. He'd heard the guy finish his phone call as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, and then – thanks to his night vision – he found himself face to face with Tony Stark.

 

He'd seen Stark on TV before. He'd watched a few press conferences with curiosity; it sometimes seemed all the man was doing was attend press conferences. Steve always thought he was so much like Howard: a showman, a lover of spotlight. A happy egocentric that couldn't do wrong, at least in his own eyes. But while Howard had a certain enthusiastic innocence about him, back when Steve knew him, his son seemed to possess a large dose of sardonicism. Howard could be a happy mess. This Tony had a different sort of charisma, a one that appealed to Steve far less. He was always perfectly groomed. Always in possession of himself. Always knew very well what he was doing and where he was aiming his poisonous darts.

 

But those were just appearances; Steve knew to take them with a grain of salt. And what he was seeing now appeared to clash with Stark's public image so badly Steve had to blink twice, wondering if this was just a doppelganger. Bleary, baggy eyes. Unkempt hair. The guy looked like he hadn't slept in days. Empty coffee cups strewn around the passenger and back seat like a derelict mosaic. Also, the man was wearing a ratty black T-shirt... Seriously, he was driving in short sleeves _in this weather,_ he must be insane.

 

Stark looked so pitiful that Steve felt a nagging obligation to make sure he was all right. He also banished all thought that the man might be after him. He was Iron Man, sure, but had he decided to come after Steve, he sure wouldn't do it out here, alone, looking like this. And as they exchanged a few bantering sentences, Steve thought: he's nothing like on TV. Sure, he sounds like it, more or less, but if he's willing to pick up an unknown guy out here at night, he must have a bit of a heart underneath.

 

The locals knew Steve, sure, but most anyone else would have driven off rather than let an unknown, burly guy into their car at night. Which was, well, wise, generally speaking.

 

Steve's curiosity was piqued. He found himself longing to talk to Stark some more. Also the inside of the car was enticingly warm; calling, beckoning. So warm, in fact, that Steve felt his face burn and his head swim once he was inside.

 

"Tony," the guy said simply after Steve introduced himself.

 

"Nice to meet you," Steve responded automatically, then hesitated a second. But it seemed the decision was already made. If he were going to say _I know, I recognized you from TV_ , now would have been a good time.

 

"Where to?" Tony asked. "I'm just passing through, but I can give you a lift to pretty much anywhere in the hood. As long as we don't end up in a snowdrift."

 

The phone on the back seat was ringing, but Tony was obviously ignoring it. Steve didn't ask.

 

"The town's a few miles down the road, that's good for me," Steve replied cheerfully. He felt uncomfortable pretending he didn't recognize Tony. But still, this didn't seem like a big lie, and he felt something playful stir inside him. He could chat to Howard's son, see for himself what he was really like. No harm done. Right?

 

He reflected over this as he awkwardly wriggled out of his jacket. It was an old garment and the zipper didn't open all the way, so he had to pull it off over his head. The inside of the car was piping hot. Steve still had chills but they would pass in a minute. Most of it was in his head anyway. Besides, Steve was wearing a warm sweater underneath.

 

Tony turned the headlights on, started the car carefully, and glanced Steve's way – now that he could see him a bit better – arching an eyebrow.

 

"That actually looks home knit," he said. "Golly gee. Is that a reindeer?"

 

"I think so," Steve laughed. "At least, I don't have a better explanation." He felt instantly guilty, because the sweater had been a present. "I think it's nice, though," he added. And he did, he really did. He supposed it might be considered a form of naive art.

 

 _Very_ naive.

 

"It's nice," he repeated firmly, "and... and Christmas-like."

 

"Maybe," Tony said, "but I hardly think that the reindeer is anatomically correct, do you?"

 

"That's a _leg_ ," Steve said. He was trying to hold the laughter in, but it kept slipping through the cracks and bubbling to the surface. "I know what it looks like, but it's a leg, I _swear._ "

 

"If you say so," Tony allowed noncommittally. "Either that or your grandmother has a really wild imagination. And you must love her very much, to wear that in public. Must be nice." Steve thought he heard a wistful note in that last sentence, but then it disappeared and he figured he must have been mistaken.

 

"That's, ah... my grandmother is not the artist in question. It's widow Kelley, actually, she's..."

 

"Ooooh, a widow, eh? Is that a gigolo thing or...?"

 

Steve stuttered for a second, then laughed out.

 

And now, Stark sounded exactly like the footage Steve saw on TV and found on youtube in the library (well, he'd been curious). And, again, it sounded nothing like it. Tony could obviously run circles around everyone and anyone and turn a conversation into whatever he wanted it to be – but right here, right now, Steve didn't sense any malice. It was just teasing.  

 

"Yes, we're the talk of the town," he deadpanned in response. "It's very scandalous."

  
Tony snorted. "Hey, as long as you kids are happy together." He grabbed a bag of blueberries, stuffed some into his mouth, then tossed the beg to a surprised Steve. "Here, have some vitamins."

 

"Thanks?"

 

For a moment there, in between grins, the lines of Tony's face looked tired and sad, and Steve wondered if he'd been like that on TV too, and Steve just hadn't noticed. But no, this seemed to be a case of acute heavy heart – must be, or the man wouldn't be here, driving alone on Christmas Eve.

 

The phone started ringing more insistently if that was possible.

 

It wouldn't be tactful to ask, so Steve shut his mouth. Tony apparently sensed the unspoken question, though.

 

"Just my... good friend," he replied with just a minuscule amount of irritation, but whether at the caller or at Steve – Steve didn't know. There was so obviously a story behind it that Steve didn't know what to say. He rubbed his hands that were – dammit – still kind of freezing. He stuffed them between his thighs to warm them up.

 

"He must really want to talk to you," he concluded lamely.

 

Tony shrugged blithely. "He's just worried that I'm picking up ripped young highlanders by the roadside... Although I got a feeling the only heights you saw until recently were Brooklyn Heights, am I right?"

 

Steve flinched, caught unprepared. He'd been trying to figure Tony out so hard that he'd forgotten he was supposed to lie low and not draw any attention to himself. For a moment he had no idea what to say. He was drawing a blank, and he felt his muscles contract in response, readying for a fight. He relaxed them with an effort. Because he didn't really think Tony was after him, and if he _were_ , why would he hint at it like this? No, no, it's just harmless chatter, he was sure of it. He did his best to look disinterested. "I've been around," he said.

 

Steve was glad Tony couldn't really see his face very well in the darkness of the car. Without his own dark vision, Tony's face would have been more planes and shadows than actual features. Still, his awkward attempt at evasiveness earned him a sharp look.

 

"What are you running from? Someone's husband? Someone's _wife_?"

 

Oh, another gigolo joke. Steve never thought he would welcome those, but there you go. "Possibly both at this point," he said, quirking his lips. Technically, it could have been the truth. Some of the SHIELD agents after him were possibly married.

 

"Ohhh, saucy," Tony commented.

 

"Wait," Steve said as a sudden inspiration for a change of topic hit fortuitously. "You're picking up young highlanders. I heard it on the grapevine. So where _are_ they? In the trunk?"

 

"Actually," Tony said, "it's statistically improbable there would be two axe murderers in one car, and since you are one..."

 

"How am _I_ the axe murderer in this scenario?" Steve asked, fighting off another onset of chills. Oh well, crisis averted, he thought to himself while Tony chattered about how he himself was a total mess, and therefore inherently suspicious, and _therefore_ a red herring, while Steve with his wholesome good looks and shy, sweet demeanor _had_ to be the real villain.

 

 _Sweet demeanor_ , Steve repeated to himself, and he had no idea why it made his cheeks a little hotter, but it did. He very much decided to keep that to himself.

 

They were passing by the Atkinson house, all bedecked and lit up like a stage. Everyone said it resembled a brothel, even though Steve wouldn't repeat that. But the lights spilled onto the road like a river of red and gold. Fitting, Steve thought. And he studied Tony's profile for a moment, the quirk of the mouth that looked unexpectedly self-deprecating, and those dark eyelashes that dusted his cheek every now and then. Stark had been attractive on TV, in a distant way, but now he was real and close, and pensive underneath all the jokes. Steve felt inexplicably protective of him right then.

 

An observer is often observed himself, and many things are prone to go both ways. Tony cast a sharp look his way.

 

"Are you still shivering?"

 

Steve was. It was so warm in the car, but it had nothing to do with that. It was just a psychological effect (ergo, unimportant), because Steve spent too much time outside and it was snowing and the temperature had dropped all at once. It brought forth memories he'd rather avoid. It was nothing. Just a bother, really.

 

Tony – quite correctly – interpreted his silence as a yes, and frowned. "Well, that's not so great. Do you need me to rub your hands or something? Wait, I know this sounded like I was making a pass at you, but believe it or not, I wasn't."

 

Hand-rubbing sounded unduly interesting to Steve. But not just that. The... genuine care – ha had no other word for it – in Tony's voice was unraveling something inside him. He'd met many people since he'd come here, and some were really kind, and more of them were just people, a mixed bag of good and bad, and you had to do your best to see the good parts because otherwise you'd go crazy. Still, his loneliness in this time, in this place, was a proud beast that held its ground. Sometimes it would lie low, but it was mostly just lurking, ready to pounce, never withdrawing completely.

 

And now this casual care which Tony exerted towards a total stranger. Steve had always expected it from himself, but learned that expecting it from others only lead to disappointment. And now, with Steve suddenly at the receiving end, Tony was sneaking through his barriers, and Steve didn't know what to do.

 

"No, it, ah, it sounded sincere," he said in a small voice. "And I'm fine, it's nothing."

 

Tony was not to be derailed. "Your feet aren't wet or something?"

 

He'd seen some footage of him as Iron Man. Steve had always wondered if his actions were self-serving when you came to the root of it, but now he knew that couldn't be further from the truth. Steve was no one at all to him, but Stark cared nevertheless.

 

"No, but it's really nice of you to ask. It's just... I don't like the cold so much."

 

Looking away from the road, Tony glanced his way, but couldn't see anything in the darkness and fleeting shadows. Nevertheless he seemed to come to a conclusion and nodded to himself. "Yeah," he says. "I think I know what you mean." And, strangely enough, Steve sensed it was true.

 

Their eyes met for a moment. Steve thought: He's seen things too. Maybe he, too, has his own unimportant little dislikes, tiny nibbling reactions to things that aren't real. And that made him feel less alone.

 

He opened his mouth to say something, although he had no idea what it would be. Tony, however, decided to break the silence first, probably because it was suddenly over-saturated with something like mutual understanding. It was a little uncomfortable.

 

He nodded towards a styrofoam cup in the cup warmer. "There's still about half a coffee in there if you want. Stale, obviously, but it's warm. I promise I don't have a cold or anything."

 

"I can't catch anything," Steve said absently, then amended it to: "I never get sick, I mean."

 

Tony frowned for a moment, then seemingly became aware of a couple of used tissues on top of the glove compartment. "They're not... ah. What it looks like, weirdly enough. " He paused. "And not _that_ either," he added with a sharp little laugh that sounded almost painful, "I just..." For a second, Tony Stark looked almost lost for words, which was not what Steve would have expected from him, but then again, he was nothing like Steve had imagined him to be, either way.

 

"Bad day?" Steve asked sympathetically, and then it suddenly hit him: All the little clues pointed towards a fact that 'bad day' was a huge understatement. "Did you lose someone?" he amended very gently and wondered if he was overstepping.

 

What he hadn't expected was a laugh – bitter and abrupt. And short. Steve's first reaction was to retreat momentarily into his shell. Still, Tony shot him a rueful and almost apologetic look, and Steve relaxed a bit. (Tony should spend more time looking at the road, though, and less at Steve.)

 

"I suppose," Tony said, "but no one died, if that's what you meant. How do I put this? No, wait, I don't need to spare any feelings apart from my own, and those are out of commission at the moment, so. In any case, I got gloriously dumped."

 

Steve took a sip of coffee and felt it spread its warm fingers through his gut. He didn't remember if he'd read or heard any gossip about Tony's relationship status. Information of that sort was most often inaccurate, anyway, and made you feel cheep for consuming it besides. But while he was musing on this, Steve took a look at Tony's profile, his firm, compact frame; his own mouth apparently decided to say: "Who'd dump _you_?"

 

This earned him more laughter, but of a brighter, more heartfelt variant.

 

"I wouldn't think I'd need an ego boost, but apparently I did. Thank you, Handsome."

 

"I meant..." Steve began a little desperately, feeling flush and stuttering a little, but Tony cut him off with a hand wave.

 

"No, no. Let's say that was exactly what you meant. It makes me feel better, so let's just leave it at that."

 

Burning in his face wasn't unpleasant, actually. It made him forget the creeping cold in his bones. And he felt a certain cheekiness that hadn't visited him for a longest time. It made him feel alive and warm again, all of a sudden. Perfectly serious, without changing his expression in the least, he said: "You know, that's exactly what I meant."

 

"See, that's good," Tony said, "that's just what I want to hear."

 

 _Were you two together for long?_ Steve thought of asking. It sounded like something someone would ask in that situation, but Steve was not that someone. With certain people, conversations like this one flowed effortlessly. With Tony... Steve was too self-conscious, and he didn't think it had anything to do with Tony being Howard's son.

 

Besides, _were you two together for long_ was the wrong question – it was not of the essence here.

 

"Did you..." he began and shut up, because he really had no business asking questions.

 

Tony half-nodded in his direction as he slowed down a bit on a particularly tricky section of the road. "Go ahead," he said, almost a challenge.

 

It's a common trap, Steve thought to himself. Because you are afraid of prying and you think the other person will talk if they want. And they probably think they shouldn't burden you with their problems, they think you'll ask if you're at all interested. And if you fall into that trap, remarkable people like Tony Stark drop you in the next town, and drive off, and you never see them again because you were too much of a coward to have a real conversation with them. And it's another opportunity missed, another chance gone to waste. Opportunity to... what, chance to do what...? He didn't have an answer to that, but waiting and keeping silent never did him any good.

 

"Did you two love each other?" he asked in a very gentle voice.

 

Maybe the tone was exactly what prompted Tony to actually pause. Steve couldn't know. He'd expected him to laugh it off and that would have been that. But Tony arched an eyebrow thoughtfully and nodded to himself.

 

"That's what I've been trying to figure out for the past two days, actually," he said.

 

"And?"

 

"And yes, we did, I think, and we still do. Just not in the right way. Maybe not in the right time, either. I don't know."

 

It seemed like there was much more to the story, and Tony seemed... ready to be convinced to talk.

 

"Time," Steve said slowly, "can be made right. If people want to. If outside factors aren't... actually insurmountable. Like wars and.. and catastrophes. But what is a 'right way' to love someone?"

 

Tony hummed thoughtfully. "Any kind of love should do, you mean?"

 

"I think so."

 

"And what if you love someone as a friend?" Tony challenged.

 

"Is that what you meant? Was that what the problem was?" Steve asked, and he thought that was not the case, and that was probably obvious in his voice, because Tony smiled.

 

"No," he admitted, as if something had cheered him up an infinitesimally small but still noticeable amount. "I don't think so. I think we didn't love the correct parts of each other.  _That_ was the problem. And I don't mean physically, obviously."

 

Tony didn't appear to be in too much pain over this, at least at the moment. He seemed to be over the initial hurt, and he was now able to analyze. He wasn't heartbroken exactly, Steve didn't think so. Surprised and disappointed at the outcome, perhaps, but not heartbroken.

 

"Aren't you supposed to love _all_ parts of each other?" Steve asked.

 

Tony rolled his eyes. "In Hallmark romances maybe."

 

"No, not _like_. You don't have to _like_ everything about the other person. No one does. But _love_ , surely? Isn't that the point?"

 

Tony gave him a sidelong look that lasted for a few seconds too long, then went back to staring through the windshield. "That might have been the core of the problem. But tell me, my dashing highwayman, how did someone so young get so wise?"

 

"I'm 26, actually" Steve stated, deflecting the rest of the question. "Not that young."

 

"Oooh, a regular grandpa, then" Tony said. "Also, _where_? There must be a story behind it. Gimme."

 

It was suddenly difficult to look up from the glove compartment Steve had his eyes fixed on.

 

"...War...?" he said after a pause. He tried to keep his voice emotionless and probably failed.

 

Tony's silence in response was telling, likely as much as Steve's.

 

"Sucks." That was all Tony said. Steve, however, knew Tony had been kidnapped and held in Afghanistan for a few months. After that, he'd just stopped producing weapons, all at once. The huge gap in the story wasn't something you asked a stranger about. But you could have your guesses.

 

He raised his eyes towards Tony almost furtively, but Tony was looking at him already, out of the corner of his eye. Their gazes locked for just a fraction of a second; everything seemed to come into sharp focus, as if they could almost read each other's thoughts; and then Tony looked away and Steve looked down; they could both just pretend nothing was changed between them, but they couldn't really fool each other.

 

"Yeah," Steve said quietly. "Sucks."

 

And that was, somehow, enough.

 

***

 

The phone was ringing again, so Tony took pity on Happy and tried to reassure him – again – that everything was all right.

 

The conversation with his newly acquired man of intrigue had taken a depressing turn, but they were entering the postcard town already. It occurred to him that Steve would get out now, soon, and vanish from his life forever. The hole in his stomach couldn't be stemming from that fact. Could it? Well, could it?

 

_I must be..._

 

"I'm hungry," he said aloud, as if trying to convince himself that was what it was. And then, with a certain amount of surprise, he realized the statement was actually true. The thought of food hadn't occurred to him for some time - not counting the few blueberries - and now he was regarding it as a new experience, almost.

 

"There's a diner that's always open nearby," Steve said. "I could... ah. I wouldn't mind keeping you company. If you want? Otherwise they'll serve you eyeballs and hooves and rotten vegetables because you're an Outsider."

 

He sounded so perfectly serious and matter-of-fact that Tony couldn't keep his smile to himself. That was Steve for you, apparently. One moment he was all sad and profound, the next moment it was eyeballs and hooves.

 

The fact that he had low-key invited Tony to share a meal made something in Tony stir – something warm and tiny and alive, like a baby bird in its nest. Tony didn't want to let him go; that factored in as well.

 

 _He's a mystery_ , he thought, trying to explain this to himself.

 

It was the same way with that breakup conversation. Tony hadn't been able to talk to people about what happened with him and Pepper, and then he was spilling his thoughts to this Steve. Not his guts, but his _theories_ , and that was even more personal, in a way. At first Tony told himself it was simply easy to talk to strangers, because it was dark and you were anonymous and you'll never see that person again. But, as it turned out, it was talking to _Steve_ , specifically, that made a difference. For some reason Tony's brain wanted to hear what the guy would say more than Tony wanted to hear himself talk.

 

And now, as a streetlight poured its liquid gold into the car, he took a good, long look at Steve for the first time. His crisis mechanism instantly went into overdrive; thanks to it, his face stayed expressionless. He looked away as if nothing had happened. He said: "Then you have to be my local guide. Protect my interests and translate for me and things."

 

"It's a deal," Steve said. Jesus, there had been clues – the coldness thing, the not getting sick thing, to start with – and also, Tony knew that newly defrosted Cap had gone missing. He wasn't _supposed_ to have that information, strictly speaking, but he did. Still, seeing him – _him!_ – with his own eyes was... unbelievable. Tony felt his chest constrict, he wasn't even sure with what emotion.

 

 _He's just a guy,_ he told himself, then, and kept it down.

 

And then: _He's just a guy, and you haven't had such a good talk with anyone in ages, and you really liked him_ for him _before you guessed who he was. So shut up about it now. Let him keep his secrets. He should have the right to choose how to live his own life._

 

"Take the left turn," Steve told him, blissfully unaware of any of this. He probably felt secure, hidden behind his hair and beard.

 

God, he was gorgeous. Those eyes.

 

He was gorgeous and it didn't matter, perhaps because Tony had talked to him before he saw him. Still, he knew one thing: he was going to do his best to protect this man.

 

"Where's your jacket?" Steve asked, looking around the car.

 

Tony shrugged. "Eh. I kind of jumped in just like you see me."

 

"You took off on a road trip without any clothes? In winter?"

 

"Well, now, I wouldn't say without clothes, you would have _noticed_ if I'd been without clothes."

 

"You know what I _mean_ , Tony." God, he sounded as if they'd known each other in ages, and in a way that was true. At least Tony knew him. Even though he was nothing like Howard's stories or history book descriptions, so technically he didn't know him at all.

 

And he wanted to. He was going to have to drive away and leave Steve here in an hour or two, and never ever mention to anyone he'd seen him, and all Tony wanted was to get to know him better.

 

Tony shrugged again. "I'll just run over to the diner. I won't freeze to death. It's _okay_."

 

"Give me a second," Steve said as if he had a project in mind, and reached for his backpack.

 

Oh, no.

 

Oh, _God._

 

"The sleeves are going to be on the long side for you, but it's warm."

 

"Steve, that sweater is even uglier than the one you're wearing!'

 

_I should tell him who I am. Otherwise it's dishonest. But if I tell him who I am, I'll just be the kid of his great friend Howard, and I'll be the asshole he'd probably seen on TV, and all I want is another hour of chatting to him without any of that baggage._

 

Chatting about sweaters, apparently.

 

"It's warm, and no one will see you, Tony. There is absolutely no one around."

 

"Someone might look out of a window."

 

"No one will look out of a window. It's Christmas Eve and it's late. Everyone is staring at the TV or snoring."

 

"It's got misshapen Christmas trees on it. I can't wear a sweater with mutant trees."

 

Tony let his mouth run unchecked while he tried to calm down and regain his footing before he blurted: _'I know who you are'_ or _'you were my childhood hero'_ or _'here, sign this napkin for me'_. Or, worst of all, _'I hated you so much, because of Howard. Both loved and hated you. And yeah, it's weird.'_ Because that last one especially Steve really didn't need to hear.

 

"It's red, though," Steve said with a most beautiful, tiny smile and he pushed the sweater into Tony's unresisting arms. "I think you'd look _fine_ in red."

 

And that was that, really. How could Tony say no to that? Heart reeling, he put the sweater on, and then he did his best to put one foot in front of another as he got out of the car, and to breathe. Steve gave him a once-over he must have imagined to be subtle. The guy nodded happily to himself, as if to say _I was right._

 

When he stepped around the car, Tony noticed the indentation in the back door. He just arched an eyebrow and said nothing. It wasn't as if he needed further confirmation. As for Steve, he was blithely hurrying across the street, beckoning to Tony to follow.

 

In the diner, the air was warm and smelled of cinnamon and apples and perpetually recycled frying oil. It was a most holiday-like mixture. There were no eyeballs and hooves in sight. The diner was otherwise empty. They sat down.

 

"What do we eat? What's good?" Tony asked as if he were going to be aware of the taste of whatever he ate.

 

"I believe ice-cream is traditional in your circumstances", Steve said, his face serious if you disregarded the spark in his eye.

 

Tony laughed out. "Breakup food? All right, then. Make it chocolate ice-cream, I guess. What's next? You teach me how to wallow constructively and then we watch _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?_ "

 

"Well, I haven't seen that movie yet, so why not" Steve said, still serious, and then he smiled a little into Tony's eyes. And Tony went very still. Because jokes were all very well, but all of a sudden this seemed like real flirting. He was aware of the exact distance from Steve's hand to his own on the tabletop; it wasn't a great distance. Tony felt the other man's presence acutely, as if he were radiating red heat. _You'd look fine in red._ And what he really wanted was to put the rest of his life on hold, and stay here, in this crappy little town, and take Steve out for movie dates and ice-cream every night.

 

The waitress had to show up then, with the damned food, and there were comments about _your friend_ and _cute sweaters_ and _you guys must really like Christmas, don't you..._ At witch point Tony shared a knowing look with Steve and inconspicuously rolled his eyes at him, perhaps conveying more than he meant to. Steve's smile became so incredibly sad for a second that it practically wasn't a smile at all.

 

"So," Steve said, somewhat bravely, when the waitress finally went away, "what's your gripe with Christmas, then?" In the yellow light, Tony finally had a chance to study that face for longer. Earlier, Tony had assembled a jigsaw puzzle from stolen glances and vague reflections in the windshield. But now he didn't have to pretend he wasn't looking because Steve was looking right back. It was the face Tony knew, all right, but on war propaganda and in history books Steve had looked noble and elevated and practically made from plastic. And hot plastic is still plastic. This was the reason Tony had stolen a few photos he'd found in Howard's desk, very many Christmases ago. In them, this man here was less of a Captain America and more of Steve Rogers, shy or serious or even goofy. The expressions, not the features, were actually the reason Tony was positive this was really him. And now the sadness in his eyes hadn't melted away, not exactly, but a certain warmth had found its way back there, and there was something so amicable in the curve of his lips that Tony didn't mind him asking questions. What's more, he didn't even mind answering.

 

Still, answering could be tricky business.

 

(When his father had found out Tony had stolen the photos, it hadn't been pretty. _Why_ , the scotch in Howard's breath had asked over and over again, like drunks do, not even listening to Tony's attempts to wheedle his way out. _To jerk off_ , Tony had spit out then, vicious, bitter, and all of 13 at the time. He got a slap across the mouth for his troubles – not hard, but it was the act that counted, not the muscle behind it. He could see Howard believed him, because he stopped asking. He just ranted. And what Tony had told him hadn't even been the truth. He wasn't sure what the truth had been.)

 

"Because I'm secretly Grinch?" he said to Steve now, reeling back from the memories and trying to turn it all into a joke, like the massive coward he was, he thought. He hated his own voice before he even finished speaking, because there was now something apologetic in Steve's eyes.

 

"We don't have to talk about it," Steve began, "please forget that I...", but Tony shook his head, vigorously. Getting real with Steve, and Steve getting real with him, back in the car, was what had started all this; and he still wanted that, with him, even if they only had a little time to spend together before they inevitably went their separate ways.

 

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a moment, staring at them. "Some families celebrate together," he said slowly, "and they love it, and it's great. Or I suppose it is. A family holiday and all that. And some families are too broken for that, so they don't bother. But there are families that pretend they work, for one reason or another, and then they go through the motions, painfully, once a year, until the torture becomes unbearable; and you're a kid, and you know it's all fake, but you have to be there, you've got no choice, and you have to say all the correct words and, all the correct phrases, and you have to have the correct expression on your face, and you can't mess it up, otherwise you're unleashing hell. So, yeah. There you go.

 

"And you could have loved it in different circumstances, too" Tony went on, full of defiance and unsure at what the defiance was directed. At the years of sweeping all this under the rug, he supposed. "You could feel the potential, you could imagine how great the holidays could be, if only _that one person_ wasn't there – everything would fall into place, but that never happens, and it just gets progressively worse."

 

 _And then that person dies_ , he thought, _and you don't know if you're sad or relieved, and guilt is eating you up from the inside, and you don't have the correct words any more, not for this; you don't know the correct facial expressions._

 

Why now? Why was he spilling this now, to Steve, to Captain Fucking America? Because he'd been a part of it too, because he'd been there in a way, played his role in all of it? No, Tony thought, not really. Because he's... Steve, and because he cares even though he doesn't know me, and because he asked so sincerely.

 

Tony didn't want his voice to go raw. It did, though; it scraped at his throat, and it was too much. Steve patted his hand, unexpectedly; one moment not touching him, the very next moment all warm and _there_ , skin on skin. But somehow, the flirtatious note from minutes ago had disappeared. It was pure comfort, offered and accepted.

 

 _Is this pity_? Tony had to ask himself, then, spoiling it, spoiling everything, like he tended to do. He didn't want Steve's pity. Did he cross the line? He'd have been sorry he'd said anything, but it still felt right, to share this with Steve. Steve was making himself the right person to be shared with.

 

And Steve wasn't saying anything, as if feeling words would just fall flat. The touch was enough.

 

"What about you?" Tony forced out, because he didn't want to drown in his own feelings that were apparently using this opportunity to raise from the depths like a pitiful old kraken.

 

Steve sighed. Smiled slightly, but it wasn't a happy smile. Tony could tell he was trying to put his thoughts into words. Tricky, that, when emotions are involved.

 

"Unlike you, I used to love Christmas," Steve began. "I mean, we were... we weren't rich, but my mom would always make it special, and then, later, when she..." He took another deep breath, apparently ordered his thoughts better. "She died young, so that was that. But later I'd celebrate with friends, and it was also fine, in a different way." This was the most he'd said about himself so far, Tony realized. And it was very... unspecific, but Tony could see how difficult it was for him to string word after word, and he knew it was important, that Steve was sharing this. "But...", Steve went on, reluctantly, resolutely. Stopped. Tried again. "Well, I mentioned about the army, and now, after all this time, it's just..."

 

His words died. Still, Tony knew what he wasn't saying. _At least I have Rhodey and Happy and, yeah, Pep, even if we're not together._ _And he has no one at all left..._ "You keep thinking of the people you're not celebrating it with" he supplied, point-blank, but with incredible gentleness in his voice. Was he supposed to say that or should he have shut up?

 

Steve gave him a grateful look, though. Nodded. Because sometimes it's a relief to have someone put your own thoughts into words so that you don't have to.

 

"We're both so screwed up," Tony said.

 

And Steve replied: "At least we're in it together. Well, kind of," he amended. And, at that moment, it really felt like they had known each other for way longer than they had. Tony's hand was resting on the table. Atop it, Steve's hand lay, not moving, not demanding anything, just there. It really didn't feel like flirting any more. It felt closer than that, more real.

 

 _If I move, if I think about it too much, it will somehow go away._ And Tony very much didn't want it to go away. Oh, god. He had fallen for former Captain America in under an hour, and he had fallen badly.

 

It couldn't work. How could it?

 

_Could it?_

 

Steve was on the run, sure, but Tony could probably help him, get his hands on false IDs and things for him. Find him a better hiding place. At least he had plenty of resources. And – Tony knew with a sudden certainty, and his heart fell – Steve would probably never accept any of it. That was why he'd run away from SHIELD – to escape all the ties, to be free, to live his own life, anonymously, and make his own choices for once.

 

He didn't need Tony interfering.

 

Tony could still just shake off this feeling, this warm glow in his  gut, or he thought he could, but he didn't _want_ to shake it off. He wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could, because this was the end – it was over before it started. That was it, he got his Christmas miracle, but like with Cinderella, it would last until midnight only.

 

Or something.

 

Approximately at this time someone else entered the diner. At the sound of the door, Steve snatched his hand back as if Tony's was burning hot. Then he shot an apologetic look at Tony.

 

Of course. Steve's new life was here. He'd picked this shitty town, and its inhabitants, and now he was worried someone would see him holding hands with Tony... Or – and Tony was horrified this had never crossed his mind – maybe Steve had someone, here. Someone who mattered to him a lot. What was happening with Tony was... probably not what Tony thought, coming to think of it. He must have read Steve wrong. What are the _chances_ he were single? None whatsoever, really. _I mean, look at him._ And all the intimacies, even the hand-holding – it could be explained away, easily. Kindness. Warmth. A desire to help someone, to soothe, to offer comfort. It didn't have anything to do with... with attraction, and Tony was being an idiot.

 

_Someone says two genuine words to you and you're already spilling your guts and falling in love, you stupid, stupid, stupid ass._

 

Then his eyes suddenly fixed on the intruder, mostly because Steve was looking at him intently. The guy's stance was a call for attention. It took Tony a second to notice that the stuff on his head wasn't winter gear – well, technically, it _was_ winter gear, but with a different function in mind. A function of hiding his face. Only then did Tony notice a gun. It was so out of place in the whole Hallmark movie setting that its presence simply couldn't fit into his head.

 

Someone was robbing the diner. Someone was robbing the _fucking_ diner in Nowhere Town, Hinterland, on the _fucking_ Christmas Eve, and these things happened only to him. Couldn't he catch a break just for once?

 

Someone was robbing the diner, and Steve was going to intervene, for sure, and somehow, somehow, a bullet would find its way and Steve would die the stupidest of all stupid deaths, because that was how these things happened, that was just Tony's luck, and Tony simply couldn't live with the possibility.

 

Also, he couldn't believe he'd blithely left the suitcase with the armor in the car without a second thought.

 

Steve was getting to his feet slowly.

 

Tony was faster. Almost automatically he interposed himself between the robber and Steve, raising his hands as non-threateningly as he could, at the same time planning half a dozen moves that Happy would have called dirty. "Stay there," he hissed at Steve, and to the robber he started saying: "Okay, okay there, buddy, we can talk about this. Let's talk about this. What you want to do right now is..."

 

But, instead of leaping forward and getting shot, Steve seemed to have had the same idea as Tony. "For shame, Billy D.," he was saying at the same time. As an aside, to Tony: "I'll handle this." Then, again to the man with the gun: "For shame! What would your grandmother say?"

 

"You know the robber?" Tony's voice rang with incredulity. "You know the robber's _grandmother_?"

 

"No, he doesn't," the robber piped up hastily. "No he doesn't because this is not me." Then she – because, going by the voice, Billy D. was evidently female – paused, as if she just heard what she'd said. "Uh..." she began, backing away, but by then it was too late. In two quick steps Tony ate the distance and disarmed her easily. He was wasting his moves, really. By that point, the robber's body language was practically begging him to take the gun already.

 

Billy D. was, it turned out – after Steve peeled the layers of woolens off of her – fourteen or fifteen; a problem kid from the next town. By the number of times she said _I'm so sorry, Steve, I was being stupid_ it was becoming apparent she had a crush on Steve the size of the hill the town was situated on. Tony wouldn't be surprised if the grandmother had a crush on Steve too. Even the waitress was looking at him with heart eyes now that he'd ’saved’ her, as she put it.

 

And Tony was jealous. It took him a minute to recognize the reaction because it was so ridiculous. _All_ his feelings were ridiculous, coming to think of it. This was happening too fast. It would be over before it began. What business did he have, getting jealous?

 

Still, this was supposed to be _his_ hour with Steve, _his_ time, no matter how limited. But that was, like the flirting, all in his head, he realized.

 

 _It must be the breakup_ , he thought. _I'm emotionally compromised and I'm latching onto him for some reason, because he's my childhood crush, because he's really_ sweet _on top of that. No one told me Captain America was such a sweetheart. It's not fair._

 

Still, even as he thought this, he knew it wasn't the whole truth. It wasn't just the breakup and the emotional turmoil. He liked Steve himself way too much, and Steve didn't reciprocate, surely. They'd just met. How could he?

 

Things were happening relatively fast as Tony sat there, musing. Soon enough, Steve sent the girl home with a stern talking to and a slice of pie. He was, Tony reflected, completely and utterly unbelievable. _He's not for you_ , he told himself. _He just isn't. Leave him alone._

 

***

 

When he'd finally sent the young woman home to her grandmother, Steve turned to Tony, and to their table, and to their ice-cream, now melted. It became apparent to Steve in a flash: something was changed. Tony's stance was more guarded now. His expression smiley but glassy. Closed up, all of a sudden. He seemed to be rapidly retreating behind his barricades.

 

 _What did I do_ , was Steve's first thought. The answer was easy. You really didn't have to be a genius. He'd been too pushy, too impulsive. It had all been too much. Steve had been horrified when he realized it was Howard Tony was talking about. Parents have such power. They create the best or the worst memories that follow their children for the whole life. And here was Howard, responsible for this hoarseness in Tony's voice, and now Steve felt angry at himself for even _liking_ the man, ever. And feeling like that was all right. But then Steve had gone and put his hand on Tony's and gazed into his eyes, and it was way, way too much. Steve realized that now. As soon as Tony got half a chance to step back, he did. Steve just couldn't find the middle road, it seemed. It was either missed opportunities or coming on way too hard. Up to that point, he'd thought it was going so well, but in all honesty? He should have expected this. This was Tony Stark. What would he want with some guy he picked up on a country road? So, he'd opened up a bit, so what? People did that with strangers, sometimes, when they were unsettled or sad. They unloaded; then they went on with their lives, afterwards, as if nothing had happened. They most certainly weren't looking for someone to hold hands with.

 

 _The best I could have hoped for was an one night stand,_ Steve thought ruefully. And he would have taken it, too. It wasn't that he was desperate. He could have had sex with someone if he'd wanted to. Not to be immodest, but he wasn't blind, he saw how people looked at him. But _this_ , with Tony – this thing that _could have_ happened, perhaps, even for one night only – it would have been different, because it would have meant something to Steve. He hadn't felt this close to anyone in ages, this understood, this... not alone. It made him come alive, like being thawed for the second time, but this time all the way through.

 

Steve was barely aware of the waitress, even though he replied to her thanks very politely. Thank you, autopilot, you're ever helpful. In the end she even brought them burgers, her treat. They were probably good, they usually were, here. Steve didn't remember the taste at all.

 

They wolfed down the food she generously refused to take any money for (Tony stashed a huge tip under the menu, though). Tony's hand wasn't close to his any more. He carefully hid it on his lap. Steve understood. He stepped back and didn't push, but he didn't have the energy for small talk either. They were largely silent, back in their own, individual glass cages. Just strangers that had met on the road. Steve's chest felt empty, but hey, that was the usual state of affairs anyway.

 

On top of all that, the waitress very politely said she would actually like to close soon because she was pretty shaken, and Steve's motel was nearby, anyway (she knew because everyone knew everything about everyone around here). They certainly wouldn't mind, would they?

 

And what could they say to that?

 

"I need to move on, in any case. Got a long way to drive tonight," Tony said with some relief, as it seemed to Steve. He probably can't wait to be out of here and get back to his life and his friends.

 

Tony seemed tired already, though, and Steve wasn't sure it was such a great idea for him to drive. Not in the dark and the cold, at this time of night.

 

"Are you sure you should go on?" he asked, not wanting to push further, but unable to keep silent on this. "It's late. I can help you find a place to stay." It probably came out wrong, but he could hardly mess up more than he already did.

 

"No, that's fine, I need to go," Tony said briskly. He probably knew what he was doing. He was Iron Man, after all. Besides, he looked decisive and Steve didn't have any leverage with him, so insisting would hardly do any good.

 

"Okay," he said, reluctantly. He _did_ want to go home, though, just go home and be alone. To nurse his disappointment. "Okay,"

 

***

 

"So, you live in a motel, eh?" Tony said, with an empty grin. "Lurid." It fell flat, and he hated himself intensely for saying anything.

 

Steve was standing there, not quite knowing what to do with his hands.

 

And Tony, acutely aware they will be parting ways right now, was deliberately forgetting to return the sweater, so that he'd have a keepsake. He was like a fanboy out of nightmares, he thought. He should stop.

 

He still didn't return the sweater.

 

"How can I thank you for the ride?" Steve asked, seemingly reluctant to touch the door, as if the door-handle would burn him, as if that act would disperse the last of the magic. Or... no. That was all in Tony's head _again._

Or was it? Steve stood there, shifting from foot to foot, looking now at Tony, now at the table. He seemed pensive and... he _did_ seem reluctant to go, if Tony read him right at all. Inside the diner, there were still some remnants of the miracle energy, perhaps. The moment they stepped out, they would be back to perfect strangers. They would have to be. What other option was there? Maybe Steve felt it too.

 

Well... He won't know if he doesn't ask, right? Tony couldn't resist one last attempt.

 

"Is it too much if I ask for your number?" Tony said against his own better judgment, pasting a showy grin on his face as a form of preemptive self defense. At the same time, his own inner voice was yelling: _Why? You're spoiling it! Of course he won't give you his number, he's on the run, and besides, why would he want to? And what would you say to him if you talked? Go on lying about who you are?_

Steve frowned for a second, as if completely puzzled. Obviously, he couldn't imagine why Tony would ask for his number when Steve was just being polite and kindly. Tony should have shut up. Like, two years ago, probably.

 

And right enough, Steve hesitated, his lips going a little flat. And right enough, he gave Tony a rueful little smile. "I don't have a phone."

 

 _Yeah, right_ , Tony thought. Something must have shown on his face, because Steve felt compelled to add: "No, I _really_ don't." He looked a little frantic, to Tony. His hand was resting on the door-handle, but Tony couldn't tell if he was anxious to get out or if he was holding the door closed, so to say.

 

Steve lingered there. He seemed to be weighing something in his head for a minute, then evidently came to a decision.

 

"I _don't_ have a phone Really. But you could have a kiss instead," Steve blurted with a defiant look in his eyes for a second, and then he blushed bright red. "Uh, if you wanted," he added quickly.

 

Tony stepped towards him, heart hammering. Before either of them could change their mind, he put his hands on Steve's shoulders. "Let's say I wanted." His eyebrows did their little twitch all on their own, out of sheer nervousness.

 

Steve's eyes had gone wide, but he didn't hesitate. He touched his lips to Tony's, and Tony moved to meet them. It was soft and shy and exploratory, a meet and greet. And Tony let it warm him through. Still he couldn't enjoy it fully, because his thoughts wouldn't stop talking at him.

 

What was this, what was going on? Was Steve interested or not? Interested in _what_? What the fuck did he _want_ with Tony and what was the matter with all the mixed signals? He needed his signals seriously straightened out.

 

And, in another part of Tony's mind: What if he could make this go further, right now? Steve was there, teetering on the edge. If Tony opened his mouth now, if he turned the kiss into something bolder, more passionate, maybe Steve would respond in kind. Tony would have sworn this wasn't there just a minute ago, but now... he thought he could almost feel the desire coursing through the guy, quivering under Tony's s hands, still motionless on Steve's shoulders.

 

Steve's arm sneaked around Tony's waist, but gently. He didn't pull him closer, just let it rest there. It somehow felt bursting with kinetic energy, though, as if it took an enormous effort of will to keep it still.

 

_If I do this, one thing might lead to another pretty quickly, and I could have him for the night, and what am I waiting for, then, am I crazy, what's wrong with me?_

 

Wrong. That was how this felt, for some reason. Not the touch itself, _that_ felt incredibly right. But Tony realized he didn't want Steve for just one night. The past Tony would think him insane for missing the opportunity, surely. But somehow, somehow, it didn't feel like enough now, almost like an one night stand would cheapen the whole experience. Tony wasn't going to do that, even though that was – when all's said and done – one of the hardest decisions ever, and he would probably regret the hell out of it later.

 

He stepped back.

 

Steve looked disappointed, and it almost broke Tony's resolution.

 

Silence reigned supreme between them; Tony didn't know how to read it. He didn't know anything any more.

 

"I'll be going then," Steve said. He sounded disappointed, Tony thought, but it was better that way, it _was._ Tony would let him go and he'll cherish the memory of this short time they'd spent together, and, ultimately, that was all that he could have in the end.

 

He nodded, saying goodbye to the dream; it hadn't been feasible anyway.

 

"Be safe, Steve." His voice was so gentle that he surprised even himself and it was so soft he wasn't sure Steve heard him at all.

 

Still, the moment Steve stepped through that door, alarm bells went off in Tony's head. It wasn't just about letting him go. Letting him go was sad, sure, but letting him go with a lie felt decidedly wrong. Tony needed to let him know who he was, and he needed to let him know he was aware who _Steve_ was. He couldn't tell why that was so important to him apart from a vague idea that, if they ever met again, Tony didn't want that lie between them. The truth burned inside him and wanted out.

 

"Steve?" he called out before he could talk himself out of it. "What last name are you using?"

 

Steve turned, as if startled. "Using?"

 

"Yeah. Grant? Buchanan? What did you pick?"

 

Yeah, on second thought this probably wasn't the best way to break that particular piece of news.

 

Steve went very still for a second. And then, without changing visibly, his stance got dangerous. No, not dangerous, exactly, perhaps; not menacing either, he'd probably be incapable of that... Tony didn't know how to describe it, except as _ready._ Ready for anything.

 

"It's Carter, actually." Steve's voice was bright and calm and careless. It had a sharp edge that was new and, for Tony, nearly gut-wrenching. _No no no_ , he wanted to say, _it's not what you think it is,_ but he wanted to say so many things at the same time, that in the end he didn't.

 

Oh, of course Tony had to mess it up royally. And of course he'd made Steve think this was something that it really wasn't.

 

Then he heard it again in his mind: _Carter._ Oh, god. All the Howard's stories. For Steve it was so recent and painful. How must he feel, right now, here, in this time. _You keep thinking of the people you're not celebrating it with,_ Tony repeated to himself, and, just like everything else tonight, he decided he shouldn't have said it, back then. Too late, now.

 

"She's alive, you know," he blurted, and Steve's eyes went wide. "Very old, obviously, but alive. You should go see her." Tony was speaking more softly, now, non-threateningly. "I could help you out with that. If you wanted. At some point. Although you shouldn't wait too long, you know."

 

Tony was speaking softly, non-threateningly and _entirely too much._

 

"I'd like that," Steve said, just as softly, but his stance wasn't changing, he wasn't relaxing. Which – understandable, Tony thought, but he nevertheless felt a trickle of sadness in his heart. He wanted Steve to trust him. He wanted Steve to trust him unreasonably, inexplicably, completely, even though he didn't know Tony and even though Tony had been lying to him, or at least concealing the truth. "I know all about waiting too long. Trust me," Steve added.

 

Then neither said anything for a time, and seconds dragged.

 

"Are you going to try and arrest me?" The question was like a stone.

 

Tony stuffed his hands into the pocket of his jeans in a most defiantly nonthreatening gesture he could think of. "Arrest you?" he said, noticing his teeth were beginning to chatter. Which wasn't really surprising, seeing he was standing outside in a sweater only. He hadn't noticed the cold creeping into his limbs, but now it was there and it was making itself felt. A snowflake drifted downward; another followed suit, and another. Oh, capital. His cheeks were ice. "I'm a consultant, Steve. The worst I can do to you is offer some unsolicited expert advice. Want some?" He shivered, tried to hide it. "I just wanted to be honest with you, that's all. I'm not going to rat you out."

 

"We should get back inside," Steve said crisply, and just like that, he seemed to relax. His whole body changed. And something sharp that had been there disappeared from his face, his eyes.

 

"The diner is closed, remember?" Tony said. And then Steve was wriggling out of his jacket and pushing it at Tony.

 

"Now _you're_  going to be cold," Tony said, his tone accusatory.

 

Steve just shrugged: "I can manage for a few minutes." And: "Thank you for being honest, Tony, really. There's something I need to tell you as well. I was going to come back and tell you, actually. It just didn't feel right to leave without..."

 

"Yeah, I'm not done," Tony cut him off, determined to have this over with. "I'm Tony S..."

 

"I know who you are," Steve interrupted before Tony could finish, then stopped in surprise. "That's what I was going to..."

 

"You _knew_?"

 

Inexplicably, it hurt; it pierced Tony like a small icicle. He had somehow hoped Steve had liked him for _him_ , with no preconceptions, with no...

 

The hurt was mitigated by the fact that he himself had done exactly the same thing to Steve, and also by the fact that he was standing there in Steve's jacket. Steve's jacket that Steve had given him, Steve's jacket that smelled of Steve. It made Tony's head spin a little.

 

"Yes, I know," Steve said, and he was right in front of Tony. Now he put his hands on Tony's elbows. Tony hated that he could feel the touch only vaguely through the thick garment. Still, the touch was there, and it made him swallow a lump in his throat. Steve wasn't finished speaking, though. "I know who you are, Tony, but I don't mind, I swear!"

 

This surprised a laugh out of Tony. "Oh you don't _mind_ , do you?" he said, still chuckling.

 

Steve – wisely – decided to ignore this. "Do you really have to go?"

 

"Well," Tony said, "it's not as if I can drive to California all in one go."

 

"Oh, you're going to California?" There was a certain wistfulness in Steve's tone.

 

"Yep, and it's warm and lovely there, and..." Tony took a breath, and also took a plunge, "and I'd be super happy to give you a ride if you'd care to join me for the road trip." In the end words were tumbling over one another in their hurry to get out of his mouth. Eager much? He didn't care at this point. Steve was looking at him with bright eyes that seemed to see only Tony. Tony could hardly believe it, but there it was, and he could deny it no longer. "Besides, I think you should probably stay on the move." Stop talking, Tony. "Since you're a fugitive and all." Stop right now or he'll think you're desperate. "And if everyone knows you by name two towns away, it's defo time to leave." Okay, too late now.

 

But Steve was smiling at him. It made Tony appreciate the snowflakes and the thick blanket of silence that lay over everything and even the stupid postcard town with the stupid postcard decorations. It all looked quite lovely, really.

 

"All right," Steve said quietly. "Yeah, all right, let's do that. Let's go to California."

 

Despite its picturesque qualities, though, the snow – falling ever stronger – would make the trip into sightseeing in Arctic hell. Tony could feel the lack of sleep, grainy and gritty in his eyes. _You're not doing it,_ he told himself. _You're not doing it, because if you don't get some sleep, you're going to crash the car with Steve Rogers in it, and he is going to die, because this is all too good to be true, and that always comes with a price, for you._

 

He said that. Not in so many words, but the essence was there, or at least he thought so, because right then he had trouble following what his mouth was spewing. His heart was thunder and his lips were dry as the Mojave Desert.

 

"Well, as I said, my motel is nearby," Steve began. Then  he flushed bright red, as red as Tony's sweater. "I didn't mean... All I meant..."

 

"First of all, take the jacket back, you'll freeze your ass off. I'm warm now," Tony said and despite Steve's protestations pulled the jacket off over his head, clumsily, because of the damn zipper. "Second of all, don't worry. I'm absolutely awesome at renting a separate room and figuring things from there. You're too sweet to be a rebound for an old fucker like myself. But we could hang out if you want."

 

Steve pulled himself to his full height. He had a determined slant to his mouth. "You already know what I think about wasting time and not making a good use of the moment I am given. And not kissing you tonight would be a waste of time." He kissed Tony again, then, and this time it was deep and thorough and not shy at all.

 

"All right," Tony said when he got his breath back. "Hang out with kissing, then?"

 

"Hang out with kissing sounds good."

 

"We taking the car?"

 

"No, it's three minutes away. Sure you don't want the jacket?"

 

Tony shook his head.

 

"How did you recognize me?" Steve asked, not hiding his curiosity.

 

Tony shrugged. "All the little clues. Even if I didn't suspect anything, that indentation in the car door would have been a dead giveaway. Besides, I knew that they found you and that you went missing. I wasn't _supposed_ to know, but I knew." He shivered a little and walked closer to Steve's side.

 

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Steve snapped and pulled his zipper down forcibly. He then opened the jacket and put his arm around Tony as they walked, wrapping the warm garment around him, so that both of them fit inside, more or less.

 

 _The best of all possible worlds_ , Tony thought. He didn't think: S _omeone is going to run us over because this is too good to be happening to me_ , and that was awesome. He just sighed happily, snuggled next to Steve, even though it _was_ a little awkward to walk like that.

 

"And," Tony continued, "then I saw your face, and that was it. Because, see, I spent my childhood staring at your posters." The silence didn't last a significant amount of time, but in Tony's mind it was a desert of quietness. " _I liked you before I knew it was you, in the car,_ " he said very pointedly. "Just in case you were wondering. This is not checking you off a bucket list or anything." This made it all sound so much worse. He should just shut up, really, once in his life, just shut up and not say anything for the next three days.

 

"You like me?" Thank fuck _that_ was what he got from Tony's blabbering.

 

"I thought," Tony said, "that was painfully obvious by now." And then, just because he suddenly felt like this was too much – what's Steve thinking? Tony couldn't see his face, and it worried him – he added: "You know, I kind of thought you'd be a stuck up asshole."

 

"I thought _you'd_ be an egocentric diva," Steve said serenely as they stepped into the motel lobby.

 

"No, no, you got that one right, I _am_ an egocentric diva," Tony said.

 

Steve pushed him against the lobby wall and kissed him like the whole world was ending. It lasted for a long time.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a song by The Lucksmiths. You should really listen to the whole album (Warmer Corners – which, itself, almost ended up as the title of the fic, btw) if you haven't, although I don't think anyone ever listens to the songs recced in the notes.
> 
> The dialogue from the beginning was pinched from an episode of Gilmore Girls, "The Deer Hunters". It goes like this:  
> Rory – Oh my God, I just got hit by a deer!  
> Lane – You hit a deer?  
> Rory – No, I got hit by a deer!  
> Lane – How do you get hit by a deer?  
> Rory – I was at a stop sign and it hit me. 
> 
> As soon as I saw the prompt, that piece of dialogue jumped at me and was all I could think about, so I had to steal it. Now I'm giving it back, with a bow and a thank you.
> 
> Nowhere Town, Hinterland, doesn't exist, obviously. I actually did zero research concerning geography, I have no idea which way Tony is driving from NYC to California, and everything is stereotypical to the max, but it was either do the research or write the fic, so I went with the fic. You could say it's a tongue-in-cheek reflection of general Countryside in all fluffy movies and books. If you're wondering, it's situated in a state called State. It resides permanently on all the postcards. 
> 
> What Tony is doing throughout the fic is apparently called catastrophic thinking and is closely related to anxiety. I think it might be just his shtick.


End file.
